


Only Love's Alive Tonight

by voices_in_the_breezes



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Missing Scene, Not A Fix-It, Not Happy, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:57:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3651174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voices_in_the_breezes/pseuds/voices_in_the_breezes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After shaving his head, Ragnar returns to Athelstan's room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Love's Alive Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Written at 4am, this is the product of feels and severe lack of sleep. Pretty sure the title is lyrics from a song I was listening to at the time.

Warmth. The warmth one would expect of bedding recently occupied. Familiar and comforting, it surrounds him. Soft furs and heavy woolen blankets. A feather-stuffed pillow that still bears the imprint of it's previous possesser.

He stares at it through soaked lashes. The temptation grips him, but he dares not lay his head on it, lest the impression vanish forever. He reaches out to touch the memory, careful not to disturb it. What dreams last played out here? He closes his eyes and tries to imagine them. The great walled city of Paris? Or perhaps visions of his God and this heaven he so often spoke of. The breath catches in Ragnar's chest, forcing upwards the lump in his throat. He wonders if heaven is as deserving of Athelstan as Athelstan is of it. 

He swallows hard. Fighting back tears that serve only to wet the linen sheets on which he lies. Sheets that still carry his scent. A sweet unmistakable musk he'd recognize anywhere. Once comforting, it now pains him to breathe it in.

Reality hits him like the blow of an axe to the chest. And the assault quashes the last of his strength. His heart races. He's dizzy and shaking as the anger rises within him in the form of bile. He sits up, chokes it back, and takes the pillow in his arms. 

The impression is ruined now. As dead and gone as the man who'd left it. He buries his face in it, muffling an anguished cry. Athelstan hasn't been here in two days. Not in this bed, with these covers over him, that pillow beneath his head. It's been two days since it was his body that warmed them. 

Ragnar drops the pillow. He looks at it. Now crumpled and tainted with streaks of his own blood and tears. It'll never smell of Athelstan again. The realization is horrifying and he admonishes himself for even returning here. 

"But where do I go? Who do I turn to now?" He shouts at the bloodstained floor.

The tears flow freely and silently as he awaits a reply that he knows will never come. The sound of a voice he will never hear again. A reassuring smile that will now only ever feature in his dreams. If he should be so blessed.

He falls back onto the bed an exhausted and broken man. Clutching the edge of a blanket, he prays. To his own Gods, that they may grant him resolve. To the Christian God, that He may hold Athelstan closer than he, himself ever could in this life. And to Athelstan. That he may know that his devotion to him, his trust in him, and his love for him never wavered. And it never will.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written the sad before. I'm sorry. I won't do it again.


End file.
